Lisztomania, Etc
by Bowles
Summary: Chuck Bartowski, Charles Carmichael, and four situations that didn't happen - and one that did.


It's been really hard to find time to write recently, but on the strength of my newfound obsession with _Chuck_ I think I can manage. This fic references _Chuck Vs The Pink Slip, Chuck Vs The Alma Mater _(vaguely), _Chuck Vs The Marlin, Chuck Vs The Suburbs, _and _Chuck Vs The Three Words_, in case the chronology gets confusing. This fic skips around a lot, and kind of assumes some basic knowledge of the continuity, although I think the character portrait is pretty constant even if some of the episodes referenced escape the reader.

Bonus points to anyone who understands the connection between the title of the fic and the story, outside of it being a great song.

Disclaimer: Don't own the show. Have fun seeing if you can catch some of the song lyrics (from the Phoenix song "Lisztomania") in some of the narrative.

* * *

-

He knows what Casey and Sarah think of him. Casey, for his part, has never bothered with hiding his feelings about his asset; Sarah tries, but he still knows. They think he's unduly emotional. A sentimental wreck.

He holds a cheese puff up against the light and stares at it. Maybe they're right.

This is the part where he's supposed to get up. This is the part where he's supposed to pull himself together and prove that he's a mature adult, that he can handle this, okay?

He pops the cheese puff in his mouth.

This is the part where his phone rings. This is the part where he sees that it's Sarah, finally, that she's calling back to say anything, something.

"Hi," he says.

"Hi," she says.

"You got my messages," he says.

"You only left thirty," she says, and they laugh. It feels nice to laugh.

"Yeah, well, I wanted to get in touch with you. But I guess that wasn't happening. You were away on business, I guess."

She says nothing. That – he guesses – is classified.

"Where are you right now?" she finally asks. "I... I want to see you."

"I'm sitting at home." He doesn't know if he wants to ask, but he does anyway. "And where are you?"

Conveniently: "I'm a minute away. I'll see you in a few moments."

He scrambles to shave, to put on something more respectable (a light sweater to cover his dirty undershirt, jeans instead of his beloved sweats). He steals some of Awesome's cologne and sprays a bit on his arm. His hair's a mess. He's a mess.

He runs for the door, because he just knows that she's there. That's how this works. And she is.

"Hello," she murmurs.

"You're beautiful," he mumbles, and then realizes he's said it aloud. She chuckles. "I mean, hey."

"I wanted to see you."

"I wanted to see you, too," he says, and it's so good to finally get that off his chest, to say it in person and instead of over an answering machine. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry about everything. But I... I had to, right? You made me want to be better than I was. You made me believe I could do more."

"I guess I couldn't make you want to stay with me," she replies quietly.

Wait. That's not how this is supposed to go.

"I know you feel like that, I'm so sorry, but it's not that I didn't want to be with you –"

"Then what the hell was it? You suddenly had the urge to play the hero after spending two years trying to regain a normal life?" She's angry. She's hot as hell when she's angry. "I've never had a normal life, Chuck. It's not easy for me to just ask you to run away with me, from everything. And then you just leave me."

This isn't how this is supposed to go _at all_.

"Sarah –"

But she's gone. He wonders if she were ever even there.

He blinks and scratches at his beard. The jar of cheese puffs is on the table in front of him and his phone isn't ringing. Even his daydreams blow.

-

He sits with his bags and waits for the train because there's nothing better to do. Every once in a while he'll spot someone that he thinks he knows – used to know, now – and he's gotten bored of hiding, so he just closes his eyes and pretends he's not Chuck Bartowski, that he's someone else with the same facial structure and lanky build and DNA but none of the same problems.

The note from Jill was stuffed in the back pocket of his jeans: _I'm so sorry, Chuck. I can't anymore. Best of luck with everything. Sorry. Jill._

Not even a phone call. Kids these days!

But that's not it. He won't let it be. Two weeks later he returns, dressed in his suit – black tie, of course, and a bright blue handkerchief, because he'd always wanted one of those sticking out of his breast pocket – and people stare as he walks through the Stanford Oval.

_That's that Bartowski kid_, they're saying. _The cheater._

But he just smiles, smirks even, and winks at one of the pretty girls staring at him. Nowadays he knows how to cause a scene, and with style, too. He knows where he's heading, and her sorority house is just like he remembered it. A bit lonelier, maybe, but he's here to change that.

"Bartowski?"

It's one of Jill's friends. Marianne. He smiles again. "Hello. Could you be a doll and tell Jill that I'd like to talk to her? Thanks, babe."

Marianne looks like she's about to reply but he winks again and she scurries away into the house. That move is a really nice addition to the arsenal.

"Chuck?" comes a voice.

Bryce is as handsome as ever. He takes a few steps toward his former roommate, who's stuck in place with shock. It only takes a second to rear back and deliver a nice right hook to the side of Bryce's face.

"Actually," Chuck says, standing over Bryce's body and wiping his hands, "you can call me Charles."

"Charles, huh?" Bryce gingerly touches his cheek with his fingertips and winces. "That's good stuff. Nice outfit. How's the real world treating you?"

"Fine. I've got a job with Roarke, working with Ted and the boys. They realize that degrees aren't everything, especially considering..."

"Bartowski!" It's Fleming. "I've called you one hundred times! Why don't you answer your phone, boy?"

"Been busy," Chuck says, shrugging.

"There was a mixup with the expulsion," Fleming rambles on, huffing with the effort of running over to his former student. "We realized you'd been framed." He glares at Bryce. Reaching into his bag, he pulls out something heavy. "Here's your degree. Our apologies."

Chuck handles the frame with care and sees his own reflection in the glass. He grins at himself. "This will go nicely on my office wall. Ted and the boys will get a kick out of this."

"He's right down here..."

He swivels. There she is, being led out of the house by Marianne. She looks so damned cute with her glasses on.

"Jill," he says.

She takes the stairs one at a time, her eyes never leaving him.

"Chuck," she finally says, when she's just feet away from him.

"Actually," Bryce remarks laconically, "it's Charles now."

Chuck resists the urge to kick Bryce in the face.

"I see. You look very nice."

"Same for you, Jill."

"Yes. Successful, aren't you? I'd heard."

He blushes. "I guess you could say so. I mean, I've got a great job, with one of the foremost technological companies in the world working with the world's greatest computer expert... yeah, I'm doing all right."

"Uh huh." Jill's pensive. She bites her lip when she's pensive. "Just wondering, are you still insecure and unable to stand up for yourself?"

He nearly drops his new degree. "What?"

"Nothing. You know. Just wondering."

Something's clouded the sun and he can't see her anymore. He wants to reach out but can't.

"I was just wondering if the seat next to you was taken."

A woman. Mother, probably. Chuck tries to smile and scoots over on the bench. "No, it's open. Just shove my bag to the side if it's bugging you."

She moves to sit next to him and ceases to obscure his view of the fluorescent lighting on the panels hanging above their heads. He looks down at his bags and wonders how Ellie will take the news.

-

What he's thinking, as Longshore hoists him by the arm and roughly leads him from the car to a narrow metal fire escape that extends to the very top of the building, is that this is the perfect time for Charles Carmichael to work his magic. That this is the perfect time for a real spy to do what spies do best.

"I imagine you're not just taking me up here for the view," he jokes.

"This is where the helicopter will extract you," Longshore says. He seems incapable of looking in one direction for more than three seconds, and Chuck wonders what on earth could possibly be going through the man's mind. Probably something really dangerous.

"Right-o. Helicopters. You know, I flew one once."

Longshore isn't impressed.

It occurs to Chuck – Charles Carmichael, he reminds himself – as they ascend the fire escape that this situation is salvageable. Longshore's grip is tight on his bicep, yes, but – for the well-prepared spy, there's always a "but" - if he were to push off the wall with his right foot, sending both himself and Longshore against and possibly over the rail, and then catch his handcuffs against the curved metal jutting down from the next floor of the fire escape – if he were to do all this, with the right amount of gusto, then he could neatly dispose of Longshore and make his hasty escape.

But he's never been one for casualties, so he doesn't. Longshore should count himself lucky.

"Is there a reason these things always happen at night?"

"Dramatic effect," Longshore retorts. "Listen, just be quiet and we'll try to make this as painless as possible. It'll be over soon."

That it will, Charles muses as his eyes finally rise above the level of the roof, although Longshore can't possibly know what comes next.

Which is:

Charles, acknowledging the agent's grip on his arm, headbutts said agent with just enough force to surprise him into letting go. Then, with perfectly symmetrical steps, Charles sprints across the rooftop. A bullet echoes past his skull, but he just smirks and holds his arms high above his head as he steps on top of the ledge and pushes off the building and into the Los Angeles night, the freedom of the air whipping his hair back and Longshore's last remarks speeding through the air over him, each bullet another gruff condemnation of his roguery. He's not falling; falling insinuates a lack of purpose, a loss of control. No, he's jumping downward, and when he hooks his handcuffs against the broken rung of the ladder ascending a nearby billboard, when he does a nice flip onto the next building, his purpose is revealed.

But then Longshore shoves him forward on the other roof and Sarah rushes up to save him and Chuck, not Charles, is terrified, and can't remember exactly what that purpose was.

What he's thinking, as he stares at Sarah, as he pleads her with his eyes for a fate she can't deliver, for a pardon she doesn't have the authority to grant, is this: please, please, please tell Ellie I love her, tell Morgan I'm sorry and that I stand by my sandwich, and please let me see you again. Please don't let this be the end. Please let _this_ be the daydream, because I don't want to be a hero, I just want to go home now.

What he's thinking, as he stares at her, is that she knows exactly what he's thinking, and that his hopes, as always, are a pipedream.

-

This place is ridiculously clean, he thinks as he sits on the edge of the counter and waits for Sarah to arrive from the back. She has a thing for cleanliness. Or maybe that's just the job description. Would she still be such a neat freak if she had her own house and backyard? He really should have paid more attention during the mission while he could.

He knows what he's about to do is somewhat foolish, but it seems essentially harmless. They took out Fulcrum's communication systems in the cul-de-sac. There are no nosy neighbors to poke around, and they've got the house – not to mention the adorable dog – for another night at least. Why not have some fun, away from Morgan and Ellie and Awesome and Burbank in general?

She walks up and offers him a brief smile, and he grins back.

"Hey, everything okay?" he asks, and stands up to be nearer to her.

"Yeah, just a routine debriefing."

He notices the particular color of her lips and loses himself for a moment. Shaking his head, he proceeds to explain his idea to her: "We could maybe enjoy a night in the suburbs... order in, rent a movie, no mission to worry about, just Mr. and Mrs. Carmichael. Maybe have some fun."

He knows she's conflicted, that her strict CIA upbringing and training makes her want to say no, and for a second he's scared she might. But then she smiles again, although not fully, and says, "Why not?"

Which leads to now. He's sitting on the sofa in their quaint McMansion, sneaking a few pieces of popcorn from the bowl in front of him. Sarah's getting drinks, and the DVD title menu for _The Princess Bride_ is displayed on their fancy HD widescreen TV.

He picks up a toothpick and brandishes it like a sword in the air. "Hallo. My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die!"

"What's that?"

He moves over to make room for her on the couch. She sits, leaving a respectable six inches between their hips.

"You'll see," he replies, accepting a beer from her. "Trust me, your perception of pop culture and the world will change after seeing this movie. It's got action, a giant wrestler, sword-fighting, and giant man-eating rats. Probably too much of a chick flick for you, now that I think about it."

She swats him in the arm and he grins before pressing play.

He can tell she's somewhat confused by the film's beginning, but as it progresses she gets over the deliberate campiness of the movie and begins smiling at some of the funny lines – not that he's staring at her or anything.

"They're really inefficient at killing people in this movie," she whispers to him at one part.

"Yes," he agrees, "that was the prevailing thought of parents and ten-year-olds everywhere when this movie was first released."

When Inigo makes his final stand against Count Rugen, he grabs the toothpick again and mimics the actions on the screen, saying the words along with Mandy Patankin: "Hallo. My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die!" By the end of it all Sarah is laughing at him and he feels like a million dollars. A million dollars of CIA money with significant strings attached, but still.

By the end of the movie, the six inches between them have evaporated, and Chuck is considering asking Beckman for an extension. They could use this as a base of operations, even. He could tell Ellie he was moving in with Sarah. It would be great for the cover.

He turns to her, to maybe say his idea aloud, but she's looking at him with this wistful expression. Her eyes seem to be trying to tell him something, to try to say something for which there are no words.

"Chuck, we can't go back there. It was just a cover."

The Orange Orange is so much different from their once-and-never-will-be home. Colder. And the ventilation is noisier.

"Yeah, I know that, it's just –"

"Casey and I have to shut down the operation; can we talk later?"

The technicolor idealization of the suburbs is gone, replaced by the high definition starkness of real life. She's telling him something with her eyes, the words of which are perfectly clear: "Drop it."

"Absolutely," he says.

He turns to walk away, but she stops him again.

"Uh, Chuck? I'm gonna need that back."

Outside, after he's given her the ring, after they've had their awkwardness, he keeps his head down as he trots to the Nerd Herder. He knows he shouldn't feel so surprised, so dejected, but he has long since realized that he doesn't have a tape cassette heart like Casey or Sarah, that he can't just pause his emotions and rewind and fast-forward whenever it's convenient.

But that's what's needed. That's what Beckman wants from him, what Casey wants from him.

What Sarah wants from him.

"As you wish," he mutters to himself.

-

"She loves you."

Carina might be saying something else, but he doesn't notice. The mission? What mission? That's child's play. Just a diversion.

He blinks. There Carina is, still standing. He's still here as well. There's no Charles Carmichael; there's no Bryce Larkin; there's no daydream. There's no Sarah, either, but they can work on that. One day. Today, maybe. He can tell her. And when it's all over they'll barely discuss this blip on the radar, and they'll burn the pictures inside his brain and set off for someplace where there's not blood in the water. Someday.

But today he can tell her. He can tell her _now_. ("I love you. I want to be with you. I'm an idiot. But you make me want to be everything I thought I couldn't be, and I'm not sorry for that.") He can explain_ now_. Mission be damned.

Carina's staring at him.

Sarah loves him.

He barely hides a smile.

This is _real_.

-


End file.
